We played an experimental Scrabble game across two boards tonight, with both bags of letters. It was epic, beautiful, and wonderful, and I looked around our living room and realized how in love with my friends I am, every single one of them, even though they frustrate the hell out of me sometimes. We squabbled good naturedly over whether or not words were Scrabble legal, what order to play in, who was making the tea, and we talked about everything and nothing in particular together.

I feel like a dirty hippie saying this, but it’s really true: I love my friends. I love being there for them, making pancakes in the morning, sprawling in the back yard on blankets trying to whistle with blades of grass. I love the confidence of knowing that they will be there for me, when I need it. I love sparring at chessboards with them, arguing over the bill for dinner, and ambling along the sea wall looking at the City, talking derisively about yuppies. I am so very fortunate to have all of these awesome and wonderful people in my life, and I look forward to many more years with them, to long talks in the kitchen until dawn, to shared meals and life events and pillow fights, rides on the 108 and adventures on BART.

Most of my really close friends, whom I really think of as my family, don’t read this website, so I can get a little maudlin without losing my hipster street cred. I really don’t quite understand how I ended up with the good fortune of being around such human beings, who constantly amaze, frustrate, delight, and amuse me. Life with them is never boring, and I’m stoked that we all live within a block of each other so that we can have slumber parties and build pillow forts, amble over to each other’s houses to eat food all 1950s this American life style, and be there for each other in times of need, coming together like a herd to look after our own.

This. This, right here, is why I moved here.